You  know, you can never go back home. It just doesn’t work. Not once you’ve really left. This was the last thing he’d said to you on the day before you went, as you both faded out of consciousness like the floor of a pond fades from solid to liquid. And then through the quiet hours of goo and dirt and shit, and floating weeds, you reached the morning border between water and air, and unlike the murky bottom, this was an instant transition from peace to wakefulness, as he dropped the tin coaster from the bedside table while bringing you your coffee. Sorry, he said. And on that last day, he knew that the battle was lost, and instead of trying to persuade you to stay he was just nice, and kind, and calm, and good. And then, really, you left.